<blockquote class="ipsBlockquote" data-author="BiscuitInTheBasket2in17" data-cid="221648" data-time="1392434489">
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definitely an ((f)artform. The ability to hide and release it a challenge to make sure no one knows it is you....the geniuses *one of my brothers), it to release it around something else that has a stronger smell...that you eventually get used to and realize there is a biscuit floating long after the dealt it has left.
I fart when it is convenient. But have no problems letting sewer gas SBD's go during meetings that have run too long or when those that dominate the meetings or get highly energized....I love sitting next to said individuals because the water cooler talk tends to blame them.
The only bad time to fart is during the intercourse action in a small location when you are going to have sewer gas gas.
My mom was the whip cracker when any of us farted during dinner. She gave us a choice, crack or three with the wooden spoon, or finish dinner in a small, and closed, room with the gassy dog. The spoon was a popular choice with us.
Proudest moment....after a military adventure in the weeds for 2 months (and eating early, totally pluggin' the system MRE's, some of us would Metamucil to, um, make space. Well, we some of us would usually do it to ensure that the "release" would happen in a very closed off canvas tent when most were sleeping. We would be used to be up at that time, and prepared for the really burn your eyes and wasabi clear the nose smells, would let it go. It would literally get those non-in-the-field-guys very away and very much sleeping outside of the tent. Nothing better than when it was 90+ and raining. Ahhh, if I smoked, a cigarette would be lit every time in adulation.</p>
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Bonus point for the Freakzoid reference.</p>
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The best farting story I have ever heard was my late Grandpa. Back about the early-70's or so, Both my Dad and My Grandpa worked in the Hartford bldg, and in this incident, my dad was working in one of the top floors and my grandpa was in the basement stairwell. My grandpa lets one go....</p>
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My dad called into the stairwell, "Is that you, pop?!" (there was precedent for this), to which my grandpa replied, "You heard that?!" My dad replied, "The entire fucking building heard that!"</p>
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Too bad he died before I turned a year old. I would have loved to learn that technique and let one of those go at a wedding--right after the priest says, "If there any anyone here who thinks these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."
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